In the hushed atmosphere of a provincial museum, Evelyn is drawn to a display that seems to pulse with an unspoken invitation. In a meticulously preserved 1950s classroom, the ominous presence of a crook handled cane hints at discipline long past, yet somehow still alive. Custodian of the Cane is a tale of curiosity awakened and boundaries tested. For Evelyn, this encounter with history will reveal desires she never thought she could admit.
Echoes of Discipline
The Living Museum of Yesteryear was a tapestry, each exhibit a thread woven with meticulous care to transport visitors to another time. These whispers and echoes of the past were not merely remembered, but breathed and lived. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and the faintest must of relics, as if the walls held memories of generations.
Evelyn wandered through the corridors, her tummy fluttering with a mix of curiosity and something else, something closer to anticipation. A miner’s cottage, a bathtub before a coal fire, a butcher’s shop with an apple-cheeked actor behind the counter. Each of these scenes provoked only passing smiles. But then she turned a corner and stopped.
When Susie Pembroke and her mischievous friend Linda sneak home from an unsanctioned pool party, they find themselves in rather hot water. With stern morals, a trusty hairbrush, and a zero-tolerance policy for scandalous swimwear, Mrs Pembroke is ready to deal with immodesty in her own unforgettable fashion — while Linda tries, desperately, to stay hidden... and to suppress her giggles.
Act I: A Suspiciously Sunny Afternoon
The Ford Escort that crunched up the gravel drive of 13 Garden Terrace, left a trail of golden dust and ABBA in its wake. Two girls tumbled out in a flurry of giggles and tangled beach towels. Susie Pembroke, dripping chlorinated water onto her mother’s prized rhododendrons, and Linda Marchant, who was balancing precariously on a pair of cork-soled platform sandals.
Both wore bikinis of a design that would have made any self-respecting WI committee clutch their pearls in horror. Daisy chains twined around their wrists and completed the look of reckless summer abandon. Home for the University summer break, they were determined to make the most of this lovely weather.
At St Cuthbert’s, discipline was rarely administered, but never forgotten. When Tom Allardyce, a model prefect in his final year, makes one reckless mistake, he finds himself summoned to a place he never imagined he’d be. In the hands of his formidable Housemistress, justice is swift, solemn, and strictly by the book. But behind the ritual of punishment lies something more enduring: a lesson in humility, trust, and the quiet beginning of self-discovery. A story of regret, resolve, and the sting of becoming the man you're meant to be.
There was less than a month to go before the end of term. Devastated, Tom Allardyce found himself outside Miss Harding's private study. St Cuthbert's was a progressive boarding school, but he had committed a cardinal sin.
Corporal punishment was rare, remaining on the books for only a few offences. Smoking, drinking, theft, bullying. He knew this as well as anyone. He'd reached his final year of the upper-sixth and had never faced that awful sanction.
When Sasha Penrose strides into St. Winifred’s School to protest her younger sister’s punishment, she expects her family name to open doors — or at the very least, close disciplinary files. But Headmistress Fairholme is not so easily swayed. What begins as a bold bluff quickly turns into a reckoning, and Sasha soon finds herself learning a most personal lesson in humility — delivered with quiet authority and a decidedly traditional touch. Calling Bluffs is a tale of overconfidence, old-school discipline, and the uncomfortable discovery that some lessons must be learned the hard way.
Chapter 1: Enter Miss Penrose
For many years, St Winifred’s School for Young Ladies used its sandstone grandeur as a barrier to the whims of modern society. The entrance hall, with its soaring vaulted ceiling, the stately ticking of a longcase clock, and a grand portrait of Queen Mary in all her regal finery, seemed to whisper that time itself had taken a polite sabbatical.
If these walls could talk, they’d do so in impeccable elocution — and not without a touch of warning. One thought of the generations of young ladies who had walked these halls with measured steps and demure demeanour. The conversations, and the fun. The pranks played, and the consequences felt.
When Delia Hastings is summoned to the headmistress’s study during her final week at St. Eleanora’s Summer School for Young Ladies, she expects a stern talking-to, not a formal correction in front of her peers. But tradition runs deep at St. Eleanora’s, and decorum must be restored. What follows is a quiet reckoning: six strokes, six memories, and a lesson in grace that may stay with her far longer than she ever expected.
“No summer ever came back, and no two summers ever were alike.” (Christina Rossetti)
Chapter 1: Miss Hastings is Summoned
Delia Hastings stood in front of the desk with her hands clasped before her, not because she had been told to, but because anything else felt entirely out of place. She had hoped it would prevent her from fidgeting, though she still felt jittery, her tummy fluttering like a butterfly.
When Julian Peveril strolls into the village library with a smudged copy of Anna Karenina and eighty-three days of overdue fines, he expects a scolding at most. What he receives instead is a practical demonstration of Section Twelve: Paragraph Two, administered with authority, a corrective ruler, and just enough punctuation to make him regret every exclamation mark. Overdue Consideration is a tale of late returns, early regrets, and the enduring wrath of a well-organised librarian.
There was an air of formidable calm about the St. Mallow’s Village Library. Dust motes drifted through slats of golden light, a clock ticked in a tolerable breach of the “Silence” policy, and the reading chairs all bore the slightly sagged look of being sat upon by the same few devoted patrons for the better part of forty years.
Miss Eliza Cartwright presided over this temple of silence with the gravitas of a minor bishop. She was a woman of exacting standards, polished vowels, and the ability to silence patrons with a glance. In her domain, order was more than a virtue—it was a necessity.
The following authors may or may not exist in any conventional sense, and if they do, they are surely the sort to insist on handwritten correspondence and the correct use of a dessert fork. Consider this section a fiction within the fiction, with each persona crafted to reflect the tone, temperament, and tailored sensibilities of the stories they “write.”
Whether wistful, wicked, or ever-so-well-mannered, these biographies might help you find the flavour of story that suits your mood. And, perhaps to suggest that, somewhere between velvet upholstery and moral instruction, a little elegance still matters.